Chapter Text
Dennis Whitaker was used to death.
He watched chickens die first, then calves and piglets when coyotes would slink onto the farm in the dead of night. Dennis used to stay awake at night, slapping his forehead every time sleep threatened to overtake him, convinced he could catch anything moving in the forest the dogs couldn’t.
And then, of course, there was Uncle Kevin. He watched him die, his whole family had. It had been miserable. He watched his teeth soften, rotting until they practically folded over in his mouth, like defeat. It was his uncle that made Dennis refuse every drink Trinity offered him. He worried that one would lead to more, that those would lead to a failing liver. The thing was, Dennis didn’t trust himself. There was this deep part of him that believed he was like his uncle. He recognized the disappointment that swam in his family’s eyes when they looked at him. They saw the death in him too.
It was why he did his undergrad in theology. He thought that if he couldn’t prevent it, he could at least be saved. God could welcome him with open arms. Maybe if he studied the scriptures hard enough, they would replace the gentle sculpture of boy’s bodies, so that he could be on his knees for holy reasons. Mostly, he never wanted his family to look at him the way they had all looked at Uncle Kevin.
And then medicine came. He thought that maybe if he could stop death all together, then it wouldn’t matter who he liked to kiss, to touch.
And Dennis honestly tried to put it out of his mind, love, that is. He liked working, even if it was exhausting. And Trinity was becoming a close friend. He still pretended to put up a fuss when she would drag him around the city for adventures, but he secretly enjoyed them all.
It didn’t remind him of last year, when things were bad, and what he’d done to stop feeling that way.
When he cracked open his eyes, that death-like feeling overwhelmed him for a second, until he realized he was just mildly hungover. He swallowed the panic in his throat, and rubbed his eyes.
Last night came flooding back, he and Trinity in some club with a cliche name, getting tipsy off tequila (he had finally said yes when she had offered to buy him a drink), until he basically ran head on into his attending. It shocked Dennis to see Robby there, he didn’t strike him as the partying type. But when Trinity disappeared somewhere in the throngs of people with Garcia, Robby had stayed with him. He had even relented when Dennis dragged him on the dance floor, and let him make fun of his dancing. It was weird to see Robby relax a little, Dennis wasn’t even sure he knew how.
Dennis looked around the room, noticing it wasn’t anything he recognized. The blinds were cracked open, the duvet twisted around his legs, something too expensive for him or Trinity to ever be able to afford.
Oh.
The anxiety piled in his stomach and he pushed himself to his feet, grabbing the nearest shirt on the floor and pulling it on so he wasn’t just wearing his boxers.
His head irritatingly throbbed, and he slowly made his way out of the room and down the hallway, following the scent of coffee.
He picked up each item of discarded clothing on the floor, until he was standing in the kitchen, Robby leaning against the counter with his eyebrows raised.
“Good morning?” he said. He said it like this was normal, like he hadn’t just picked his upbringing off the floor, his shame, and placed it back into its rightful spot in his chest.
“What?” Dennis said, dumbly.
“I said good morning.” Robby chuckled. “I made you coffee.” he held out a coffee cup to him.
Dennis placed the clothing on one of the kitchen chairs and moved toward Robby, taking the cup from his outstretched hand.
“Thank you.” He took a sip, scalding his tongue. He let the pain be his punishment, his repent.
He looked down at the floor, tapping his fingers on the side of his mug.
“We should talk.” Robby said, breaking the silence.
“Um, yeah. We should.”
“What happened last night,” - flinging clothes everywhere, the heat of Robby’s breath, the electricity of his strong, precise hands, his first name between his teeth, his mouth- “it shouldn’t happen again.”
Dennis held the cup of coffee a little tighter, almost hoping the liquid would burn his skin through the porcelain. This was hell, and he wanted to really feel like he was in it.
“Yeah.” he said again. He sounded like an idiot.
His gaze fell to the pile of clothing in Robby’s kitchen chair, the reminder of what they had done, what he had let happen when he accepted that damn drink from Trinity - no. this wasn’t Trinity’s fault. It was his. It was Uncle Kevin’s. It was God’s.
“- Dennis, are you listening?”
His head snapped up, meeting Robby’s eyes. He must have been talking to him, but he didn’t hear a word.
“Sorry, what?”
Robby sighed, then gently ran his fingers through Dennis’ hair, trying to tame the disaster it had become.
“I asked you if you have any regrets, if you’re okay?”
The thought was sweet, almost. But Dennis knew it was really about work. He wasn’t that stupid.
“No, I’m fine.” he lied.
Robby studied him, like the lie was oozing through his skin, like it was diagnosable.
“Can I drive you home?” He asked.
Dennis blinked. “What?”
“I want to drive you home,” he repeated. “It’s your day off, yes?”
“Yes, but-”
“Okay. So I'll drive you home.”
Dennis wanted to scream. He wanted to beg, to ask for clarification on what this meant, or if it meant nothing at all. But he didn’t. He just nodded, that anxiety building in his stomach traveling to his throat, making him choke on his next sip of coffee.
That was all it took, just something audible, for his heart to leap out his chest, to start singing hymns, to point its crooked finger at sin; at him.
Dennis faintly heard Robby call his name and take the coffee cup from his hands, lightly rubbing circles on his back until he stopped coughing, until bible passages stopped overtaking his vision.
Dennis was gripping Robby’s wrist, shaking like an idiot. He tried to breathe. He knew this panic, it was more familiar to him than anything.
“Are you okay?” Robby’s voice was soft, almost like he was speaking to a patient.
Dennis hated that thought.
“Yeah.” he said, his voice wobbling. “Sorry, I don’t know why that happened.”
“Can you sit?”
Robby led him to a chair, holding his arms like he was fragile, like he’d fall.
“I’m going to get you some water, okay? And you need to drink all of it.” Robby filled up a glass and handed it to Dennis. He let the water slide down his throat, past the anxiety, past the guilt.
“Sorry.” he said again.
“It’s okay, please.” Robby still looked concerned, and he crouched down in front of the chair. “What if you get some rest? Maybe that’s for the better?”
“Yeah.” Dennis said quickly. “Let me just get dressed and-”
Robby put his hand on Dennis’ knee, making him pause before he could get up.
“No, I mean here.”
“What?” Dennis felt like his brain was imploding.
“I don’t like what I saw there just now. I want you to rest here, go back to bed and I’ll come check on you in a bit.”
The concept made Dennis feel tingly. Sleeping in Robby’s bed? Just existing in his space, in his house?
The older man didn’t give him time to reject the offer, instead he stood up and led Dennis back into the bedroom and made him lay down, untwisting the duvet so it was placed evenly upon him.
“Sleep.” he ordered. “I mean it.”
—
Robby wasn’t sure what it was that he was doing, and why he told Dennis to sleep in his bed. Maybe he didn’t want it to be over yet, to drive him home and have to forget about it.
The thoughts of the night before plagued Robby’s brain: the way Dennis huffed through his nose, the symphony of sounds that he had pulled from the younger man’s throat, his warm, careful hands, his soft mouth on every part of Robby’s body… It was addicting to say the least.
He gingerly sat down on the edge of the bed, staring at Dennis’ sleeping form, the way he was curled into himself, fast asleep. The peace on his face made the raging feelings in Robby’s body quiet. He was lovely.
“Whitaker,” Robby shook him lightly, until he sighed and opened his eyes. “Hey. I brought you some water.”
Dennis shifted so he was sitting upright, taking the glass from his hands. He drank deeply for a minute. Robby rubbed his shin gently through the blanket.
“What time is it?” Dennis asked, his voice caked with sleep.
“It’s four in the afternoon. I wanted to let you sleep for a bit.” The truth was, Robby wanted to keep him there, in his bed for as long as he could.
“Oh.” was all Dennis said.
“I brought you some Tylenol as well.” Robby handed the pills to Dennis, and watched as he took them - a force of habit.
“Are you hungry?” he asked. “I could make you something to eat.”
Dennis shook his head, then paused, like he was debating something. He set the glass down on the nightstand, then took Robby’s hand. His fingers were shaking.
“Come here. Beside me.” he said it softly, so softly in fact, that Robby could easily pretend he didn’t hear it.
He didn’t pretend.
“Whitaker.” a warning.
“Michael.” an invitation.
He let himself be pulled by the shirt to lay sideways beside Dennis, even though he knew he shouldn’t. Even though every professional bone in his body was begging him not to.
“You’re beautiful.” he was saying it before he was able to try and censor himself.
“Kiss me.” Dennis said. It was hoarse. Shaky. Like he thought that Robby would say no. Dennis could ask absolutely anything of Robby, and he’d say yes.
He caressed Dennis’ face, then kissed him. Slowly, like he could disappear. Like Dennis was a temporary gift, someone sent to heal Robby as well as torture him.
He would let himself be tortured if it was at the hands of Dennis Whitaker.
Dennis made this little sound every time they kissed, a plea from the front of his throat. The sound was addicting. His hand trailed down Dennis’ body, letting him push into Robby’s hands, like they were sculpting desire and leaving it to soak into his skin.
His hands settled on his hips, fingers dug in so tightly that Robby was sure it would leave bruises, but he didn’t care.
Dennis cupped his face, kissing him like he derived oxygen from his mouth.
Robby felt as if his heart was going to beat out of his chest, like it was going to squeeze past his ribs and squelch through every layer of muscle and skin.
When Dennis pulled back, he thought he was for sure going to die. He tried to move in again to kiss him, but Dennis pulled back further, a light, mischievous smile on his face
.
“You have to drive me home.” he said.
Robby chuckled. “You want to go home?”
Dennis shook his head. “No, but Trinity has probably been waiting up for me anxiously.”
“So text her.” Robby buried his face in Dennis’ neck, planting kisses like flowers along his skin.
He loved hearing how the younger man’s breathing turned ragged.
“I’m serious.” Dennis said.
Robby wanted to convince him to stay, to pull him closer and kiss him until he melted under him, but he knew better. His guilt knew better.
“Okay. I’ll drive you home.” Robby pulled away, brushing the hair out of Dennis’ eyes.
—
The drive was a quiet, cold contrast to whatever happened in the bedroom, and it made Dennis feel extremely uneasy.
He knew Robby was not the dating type, so he didn’t expect that from him. But he also didn’t expect the softness, the gentleness, the want…
It made his head buzz.
When Robby pulled up outside the apartment, he saw Trinity standing there outside with an older woman, who she appeared to be in an argument with.
Dennis recognized his mother before she even turned around.
He cursed, ignoring Robby’s question before almost falling out of the car getting to Trinity.
“Trinity, what-”
“- I tried to get her to listen,” She interrupted him, “But she’s just been freaking out.”
Dennis locked eyes with his mother. It felt like eye contact with someone he barely knew.
“Dennis.” Her voice was watery, almost thin. Her eyes focus past him. “Who’s that?”
Dennis turned around, noticing Dr. Robby had gotten out of the car, standing a ways away from the conversation.
“I have so many questions.” Trinity laughed dumbfoundedly.
“My attending. Mama, why are you here?”
His mother’s eyes looked glossy, and Dennis noticed the heaviness surrounding her, the ache.
The urgency.
The death.
“I had to find you myself.” she swallowed, almost gasping for breath for the next sentence. “I know things aren’t well between us, but it’s your father.”
She didn’t have to say it, he didn’t want her to.
That’s how his family functioned: you kept the obvious, obvious. No need to say it out loud.
Dennis hated it.
He had survived on it.
“He deserves a last goodbye.” she finished.
Dennis was not sure he did. Not after everything.
The whole world felt still.
Dennis knew his father deserved to die, in fact, part of him hoped it was painful. But he felt again like a child, like he was devastated despite the years of abuse.
He hated his father, but he yearned for the man he used to be.
Before he ruined it.
“I want you to come. To the funeral.” his mother continued. “It’s next week. Please Dennis.”
Dennis wanted to hug her. He wanted to hold her and to cry in her arms. He wanted to be afforded the right to mourn his father, his life in Nebraska.
“Get out.” was all he could muster. He didn’t know where ‘out’ was. They were already outside.
“Huckleberry.” Trinity tried to put a comforting hand on his arm, but he shrugged it off.
“No. I want her out! Tell me when she leaves.” He shrugged past his best friend, and past the sobs of his mother into the apartment building.
He made it to the elevator before his own cries erupted from his mouth.